


Been Comin' for Some Time (The Rolling Rolling River Remix)

by osmalic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: kamikazeremix, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-14
Updated: 2009-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osmalic/pseuds/osmalic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's already fought his father's war. Time has come for him to fight his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Been Comin' for Some Time (The Rolling Rolling River Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Been That Way for All My Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/53557) by [embroiderama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama). 



Mary Winchester dies on Halloween. An unfortunate accident, the police say. We're sorry, John, very sorry.

In the next few weeks, lots of people come up to him for many reasons. They offer their condolences, offer help, tell him it'll get better. Hell, they even come up to him and straight on ask him if he'd ever been angry enough to hit his wife. Asked about what he saw back in the war, did it affect him any. John endures it all, mostly because there is nothing to say.

Most of the people in the memorial are their mutual friends, so John distinctly remembers when a man comes up to him and says stiffly, "Sorry 'bout your loss. Mary was a great girl."

John doesn't recognize this man's voice, and it makes him look up. "Thank you," he manages to say, and because it's only polite, he goes on, "You're...?"

But the balding man only looks at him strangely. "A distant uncle," he says quietly. "It's been years since Mary and I talked...and I never really knew her parents..."

"Yeah." John swallows, tries to smile even though it feels clumsy. After burying her parents, Mary had mentioned to him that she has no one now, but John can still be polite. "Thank you. For coming." He looks down, waits for the man to leave.

But the man keeps standing in front of him, shifting his feet. Dean is getting restless beside John, tugging his hand and making John look up again. He meets the guy's gaze. "What?" he says, a little more sharply than he intends.

The man shakes his head, then says, "Thought I'd contribute for the headstone. Least I can do for family."

There's a lump in John's throat that makes him want to scream, _Don't need that headstone, asshole, I just want—_

"That's kind of you," John says instead. His voice is hoarse, and he'll be damned if he lets this man see his anguish when society says he should be returning it with gratefulness. "Thank you," he says again.

Then the man crouches down and looks him in the eye. "You'll be hurting a lot, John" he says seriously, "but don't let it get to you." It's the same speech John's heard for the past few weeks, but it strikes him that there's a different tone in this man's voice that makes him look up to meet his gaze. And the man nods again, as if he's seen something he's looking for. "If you have questions, call me." His hands are shaking as he presses a paper into John's hands. "Name's Daniel Elkins."

John starts to say something, starts to ask for more information, when a sudden blur launches itself to his knees. Dean is crawling under John's chair, tries to huddle and disappear. John looks down and tries to coax his son out, tries to get him to say a few words before he finally surrenders.

When he looks up, Elkins is gone.

* * *

John has always liked puzzles. It's like a machine, a car: you put the pieces together and if they fit, it starts running. Some pieces fit better than others, puts up a better equation. Other times, you just make do with what you have.

And John, he can't stand the idea of anything fanciful. The world has rules that people have to abide with.

But the flames in Sammy's nursery hadn't felt real. John writes down on his journal on nights when he wakes up choking down his screams, and he's still seeing it: Mary on the ceiling, staring down at him with her mouth moving to form words.

By the middle of December, John's read books about fire and its behavior, long- and short-term effects of smoke inhalations, then he thinks, _What the hell_. Buys a book about bringing back the dead. Necromancy. Shit he'd never even considered when he was in 'Nam.

He pores over them, wonders why it feels like another piece of the puzzle fitting. He tries to keep himself from taking down notes. They're not real. John isn't really considering them.

Then he meets Missouri, _learns the truth,_ and slowly he's thinking maybe there's a world out there that doesn't fit what he used to believe in. A world where pieces of his memory fit in to form a bigger puzzle. It's a world where a young girl in a sleepy town can be a psychic, where a fire can have a life of its own, where wives can burn on ceilings.

Missouri only enters their house once and refuses to go back inside again. "It's touched by evil," she mutters to him, crossing her arms and huddling in the December chill. "Don't ever bring your children back there, John. Probably best to have your house destroyed."

John only shakes his head. Even in this new world, there are memories he can't let go of.

* * *

Early morning of the new year, John Winchester packs up the necessary things in his car.

He puts in two duffel bags filled with clothes into the trunk. Baby formula and some bottles in the passenger seat. Blankets, pillows and some toys go to the backseat, and he hesitates for a moment. Adds another blanket. It's winter and the weather's still too cold.

He puts books in, too, because Dean might already be talking, but he's still too silent for John's comfort. Puts his shotgun in the trunk and his pistol in the glove compartment. It pays to be ready, and John is ready this time.

Then he takes Sammy from the crib in the guest room, tucks a sleepy Dean in the backseat next to his brother. Dean watches him with sleepy eyes full of question.

"Happy New Year, buddy," he whispers.

Dean only hugs him briefly before falling back to sleep, snuggling next to the baby seat at the back. Sam's watching them with alert eyes, gurgling at every movement. John gets on the front seat. He doesn't say goodbye to Kate and Mike.

He passes by Missouri's house and is surprised to find that she's sitting on the stairs of her porch, lighted candles by her feet. She doesn't get on her feet when the car rolls past her, but John can see how she looks at them. Sad—maybe scared. He's seen that look before, right before the war. Before boys went to the actual front.

He doesn't slow down the car and she doesn't bother to wave. It's only when her form is a shadow flickering in the rearview mirror, John suddenly realizes: Missouri wasn't looking at him, she was looking at the backseat.

She was looking at his boys.

* * *

With his hands on the wheel and the car on the highway, John feels like he's heading towards a point of no return.

"Where are we going, Dad?" Dean finally pipes up from the backseat.

John glances at his boys, gives them a smile. "Gonna visit your Uncle Danny, Dean. You've met him, remember?" he asks.

Dean is silent for a very long time, as he usually is now. Just when John thinks his son has filled his quota of sentences for the day, Dean surprises him with another soft question, "We gonna stay there?"

John takes a sharp breath. Dean's finally showing interest, but it's mostly out of trepidation. While, John knows what his children needs now is a stable environment, he finds it fucking terrifying to think about going back there. Never knowing if they'll ever be safe.

"We'll see," he replies quietly, keeping his eyes on the road.

* * *

Too many years mark the differences between John and his brother, and Danny can't quite manage to keep the confusion from his eyes when he reaches out to meet them. His wife Elaine takes Sammy and Dean to the kitchen, plies them with cookies while John and Danny bring in the bags.

John steps into their house and sees the pictures of his family, realizes he never even talked much to them during Mary's service.

"I can use another hand in the farm," Danny tells him later when they sit on the steps. "Elaine and me are still looking at those adoption papers Carrie sent, but in the meantime, we can sure use some help."

John looks at his brother's eyes, sees the guarded expression. He looks out on this land where he grew up after his father died, remembers his mother sitting over this very porch, shelling peas blankly after their father died. He wonders how easy it can be to while away the days, have his sons walk miles to the nearest bus stop. Then he thinks back on those books his read, turns to thinking how fast his children can run when they're running for their lives.

"I've seen what Dad's death did to Ma," he says instead. "M'not gonna be her."

"Ma just didn't know what to do," Danny says gruffly. "But you still got family, John. Me and Elaine...we have _cousins,_ for Christ's sake, and they all love your boys..."

"I gotta find out what killed my wife," John interrupts sharply.

Danny's silent for a moment. "Gonna have to accept that your wife's dead one day," is what he finally says, resigned.

Anger wells in John for a moment, but it disappears just as quick, leaving him hollow. He takes another swing on his beer, watches the sun set over the fields. "Yeah," he replies shortly.

Inside the house, they can hear Sammy shrieking happily as Elaine explains that babies don't need to watch how potatoes boil, Dean. For the first time in months, a memory of his father comes into John's mind. _"Watch out for your baby brother,"_ he'd said, right before he went off to 'Nam. Feels like all his life, John's been fighting to protect the people he loves.

He studies Danny for a moment, knows that he still loves his brother, but it's a whole new fight now. Uncle Joe always said that you take mind off grief by working it off on the farm. Right now, there's a big new world opening up for John. A world where fires have minds of their own, and nightmares walk with the living. Where reality stretches to accommodate the unexplained.

John knows he's fought enough wars, but he'll be damned if he lets himself sit on one side. Not when he still has a reason for fighting.

* * *

They leave after a week. Danny looks unhappy, keeps telling John, "Mary would've wanted the best for your family."

John can't explain it, but he's already looking ahead, snatching pieces of puzzles from all that happened. A burned nursery room, baby Sammy with specks of blood dotting his lips, an unexplained uncle, and Missouri.

A wife burning on the ceiling.

John shrugs as an answer, closes the door of the Impala even as Danny leans forward. "Thanks for your help, Elaine, Danny," he says. Doesn't know why he feels like betraying someone.

But maybe Danny understands what he's trying to say, because he grips John's shoulder, his hold hard and determined. "You know we're still family, John," he says softly, barely heard over the rumble of the Impala. "Don't you forget that."

Suddenly, he's that little boy John has fought so hard to protect, one of the reasons why he went off to war in the first place. It makes John smile, but he knows by the way Danny stumbles back that it's all different now. All changed and sad. "I know that, Danny," he replies quietly, then starts the car. And more meaningfully, he repeats, "Thanks."

Dean doesn't even look out the window as they drive off, and Sammy's too busy laughing and grabbing at the toys his brother's been showing him. John watches them over the rearview mirror, sees Danny and Elaine turning to unmoving figurines on the dirt road stretching behind them.

They drive to the west.

* * *

That night, John wakes up gasping, instinctively turns to his sons on the other bed. Dean sleeps peacefully, not even sucking his thumb this time. Beside him, on his own baby blanket, Sammy gives a twitch now and then, makes John wonder what babies dream of.

Hopes to God his sons don't dream about seeing Mary up on the ceiling.

He turns on the lamp—no point getting up to find the switch—and fumbles for his journal. He sits there for a long time, tries to think of what to say about his dream. About that awful night many years ago, when he found Mary cradling her father's body in her arms, staring at him as if the whole world had betrayed her.

Howling outside jolts him out of the memory, too far to be dangerous, but still loud. John stares at the blank page of his journal, writes down: _yellow eyes, human._ He feels stupid, can't even understand them. He wonders if he's just going round in circles. He stays up all night.

In the morning, they stop for breakfast on a highway diner, where the waitress' eyes soften when Dean doesn't say a word, but points to the menu on a picture of a stack of pancakes.

John's tired, tries to coax Dean into eating something with more substance and less sugar. He keeps shifting Sammy on his lap, finding the right angle to feed him is bottle. Sammy whines, fusses, and his pudgy hands keeps snagging on the newspaper John's been meaning to use as wipes for the car.

A local headline catches his eyes: _"No suspects for the murder of Liddy Walsh"_

And although the picture of her funeral is tiny, it's unmistakable that standing among the crowd is the surreptitious form of one Daniel Elkins.

* * *

He stops by a phone booth, tells Dean to mind his brother for a few minutes. Dials the number with shaking hands, the crumpled paper with the number given months ago clenched in the other.

 _"Yeah,"_ a man's voice answers curtly after the sixth ring.

John takes a deep breath. "Elkins," he says, surprised to hear how forceful his voice is. "It's John. John Winchester. I..."

Elkins makes a surprised sound. _"Mary Campbell's husband, yeah I remember."_ He pauses, and John can hear the telltale snick of weaponry, the sound of a revolver snapping back to place. _"Look, you caught me at a bad time. I'll—"_

"Liddy Walsh was one of Mary's friends," John blurts out. "You shouldn't be...you said..." He stops, tries again, "I have questions and you..."

Elkins gives an audible sigh. _"Didn't think you'd be this stupid,"_ he says, and now his voice is rough, weary. _"Fine. Alright, write down these directions. Make sure you're not followed."_

* * *

When the door opens, chain still clinking in place, Elkins genuinely still seems surprised to see him. "Huh," he mutters through the door crack. His eyes are bloodshot like he hasn't been sleeping. "So whaddaya want?"

John clenches his hand to keep from grabbing the pistol in his pocket. "You said, if I had any questions," he reminds him tightly. "I gotta talk to you."

Elkins stares at him for a moment, then closes the door. In a few moments, the latches are freed and the door swings open. Elkins cocks his head. "C'mon in," he snaps. "Don't touch anything."

John hesitates for a moment, peers inside the house before stepping inside. Elkins immediately shuts the door behind him, leads the way through books and papers on the floor, covering all the chairs, desks, even up to the wall. John itches to look at all of them. They all look so random, but he knows he'll be able to discern some patterns from them, if he looks close enough...

"Beer?" Elkins asks, then decides, "Yeah, beer. You're gonna need it."

"I'm driving," John tells him.

Elkins barks a laugh, already holding two bottles from the fridge. "Farm boy like you should know how to handle his alcohol." John tries not to snort his disapproval, but reminds himself he's a good driver, and that his children are with a babysitter back in the motel. No one in danger here but John, and John knows he can handle himself. Elkins motions for him to sit. "So. You read the papers. Mary's told you about Liddy Walsh, then."

"Not..." John stops, realizes Elkins has the tables turned around and is asking _him_ questions. "Liddy was an old friend of hers, but she moved away after her father died, same year Mary's...her parents died." He pauses, asks shakily, "Does Liddy...did it have anything to do with Mary?"

Elkins shakes his head. "Just because your wife died—"

"Look, we can sit here and pretend to put puzzles together, or you can help me," John interrupts. "I went to a psychic..."

Elkins barks out a laugh.

"...and she helped me. What the hell's so funny?"

"You," Elkins snickers, shakes his head. "Oh, you stupid fucker. You crazy bastard, you're halfway there already. Mary should've known!"

Alarm washes over John, makes his hand twitch for the pistol in his belt. "You're not her uncle, aren't you?" he asks hoarsely.

It's probably the right question to ask because Elkins stops laughing, keeps a smile on his face. "All you gotta know is that you don't need blood to be family," he says. "And, boy, believe me. When you're in this line of work, sometimes they're all you can trust."

"That's not an answer," John says accusingly.

Elkins chuckles. "No, and I bet you have more questions now." He shakes his head, takes a swing of his beer. "I went to Mary because she had something of mine and I wanted it back. She didn't want to give it to me, but I—" He must've caught the look of disgust on John's face because he laughs again. "Don't get your imagination all twisted. It was just a gun. She gave it back, all angry and huffy too, but she says she don't want it anyway."

"Mary hates guns," John breathes out, hears the horror in his voice. He's beginning to words and drawings jump out from the wall: _Cattle mutilation in Denver...Blue Rapids: sighting of winged creature – contact J. Murphy...Mary Winchester & ???... _John knows he should feel scared, be fucking terrified of being trapped in a house of a lunatic. But he feels strangely...focused. Alert. "Elkins, _what the hell is all this?"_

He turns to find the man staring at him with a strange look. "Mary was family," he replies quietly. "And I'm truly sorry for your loss, Winchester."

John waits, grips the bottle of his beer. "What else can you tell me?" he demands. _Mary, how could you keep this all from me?_

Elkins watches him with something akin to sorrow. "I've done some asking around," he tells John. "People who know about this stuff, better than I do. But no one has a clue, and...well, I really don't know why it had to happen to _you._ Maybe it was really just an accident—"

"I know what I saw," John snaps back, stops when memory engulfs him. He starts again shakily, "But Mary's dead and something killed her, I saw it. I need to start protecting my sons."

"Just wanted to make sure," Elkins tells him gruffly. He nods, stands up to take down some papers from his walls. "Didn't want to accidentally pitch a life to you when you don't know what you're getting into. You won't be unseeing a lot of things, mark my words."

John pauses, thinks back on his years in the Marines, in the sweltering heat of the jungle, the shouts, shots fired in the air. He thinks about Mary on the ceiling, burning but unable to scream. He remembers his promise to Ezekiel Winchester, to take care of Danny. Remembers Dean carrying Sammy out of the house, running with both his sons in his arms.

How he can't un-see it all.

"Teach me," John says, and it's not a request.

"Have to be sure," Elkins says again, softly, as if to himself. Trying to convince himself and not John. "Hunting means you'll go where nobody else wants to go. This ain't like signing up for the Marines, Winchester."

"Maybe," John finally interrupts, already scanning the walls with renewed interest. "But I'll be damned if I'm not gonna start fighting back."

After all, it's all the same. John has fought fights that weren't his before. It's just another battle to protect the ones he love.

And nobody, fucking _nobody_ has to draft John Winchester for this war.


End file.
